by Chad Huskins
Shcherbakov hung up without another word. He stood there, looking at the tire tracks and the ruined fence. Then, he noticed a draft moving up his arm. Inspecting his sleeve, he found a tear. An ugly tear. In all the running, something had really gotten a hold of him, and without him noticing. There was a gash there, not one that demanded stitches, but deep enough.
Laughter on the wind, retreating.
The storm had lightened up some. There was even a part in the clouds, through which soft milky moonlight was pouring through. The Grey Wolf walked over to the fence, looked back down at the dock house. What little he could make out was utterly ruined. He fetched his phone back out and sent a text to Zverev: Вы должны послать кого-то, чтобы сжечь доки. Translation: You had best send someone to burn the docks.
Zverev wouldn’t like that—in fact, he would be appalled—but it would be better than to have some inspectors eventually find it in this state, and go inside to see what had caused the structural damage. They might find more than Zverev and his people wished.
It was no explosion, so what did this?
That mystery would occupy his thoughts until Zverev’s people came to pick him up. He took out his silver bear’s-head lighter, lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and pondered. Somewhere, another dog answered the first one’s howl.
9
Syshka turned out to be a quaint little restaurant nestled in a delightful part of town. The parking lot wasn’t overly packed, which wasn’t surprising considering the blizzard’s impact. On the ride over, Rideau had had Detective Yudin turn up the radio. On it, they heard that so far there were twelve deaths so far attributed to the storm.
She checked the time on her phone (9:33 PM), stepped out of the car, and braced herself against the wind. “Thanks for the lift,” she hollered back to Yudin and Tattar. “I’ll call a cab later.” She waved at them as they pulled away, and walked slowly across the parking lot since it was half ice and half slush, with no way to distinguish where one ended and the other began.
Her phone vibrated. Rideau retrieved it from her pocket. She barely had any reception, but the text from her wife came through: Are you all right over there? News says the storm is really bad.
Rideau spoke into her phone, using speech-to-text. “Yes, the storm’s bad, but I’m fine. Period. Love you. Period.”
At the door, a Japanese woman bowed expressionlessly to her, and asked in broken Russian what seat she would like. Rideau did a quick scan of the restaurant, taking stock of the many Japanese murals depicting waterfalls and flamingos. The room was cast in soft lighting. A small fountain was bubbling at the center of the main room, and light Japanese folk music was playing on unseen speakers.
She spotted Dominika over by the large bay windows, seated at a booth and looking very engaged by something on her Droid phone. Rideau pointed and said, “I’m with her.” The greeter nodded and moved to greet a couple walking in behind her.
Rideau made her way over to the booth. Dominika said nothing to her as she removed her coat and shook it once gently to remove some of the snow. “As per your request,” she said, sliding into the booth. “Here I am. Looks like a nice place. I like the décor.”
The woman across from her nodded almost imperceptibly, then tapped a button on her phone to switch it off, put it in her purse, and finally looked Rideau with those gray, unhumored eyes. “I took the liberty of ordering us some drinks. Water and wine.”
“That’s fine.”
A waiter happened up at exactly that moment, balancing the drinks on his tray. After passing them out, he produced a notepad and looked at them expectantly. “Are you ladies ready to order, maybe some appetizers?” he said in fluent Russian. “Or do you already know what you want?”
“Uh.” Rideau looked at Dominika. “Appetizers are fine while I’m looking over the menu. Do you recommend anything specific?”
“The soft shell crab,” Dominika replied. “It’s my favorite when I come here. If you like salads, I’d go with the wakame.”
Rideau nodded to the waiter. “I’ll have that.”
“And I’ll have the crab appetizer.”
“Thank you, ladies. I’ll be right back.”
Once he was gone, Dominika lifted her wineglass and took a sip, and perused her menu. Rideau opened hers and did the same. “I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” Dominika said.
She smirked. “It took me a moment to pry Tattar away from the scene.”
“Let me guess. The media?” Rideau nodded. “The lieutenant seems like a private man, but once the lights and cameras are on him, he does like to talk.”
“You’ve worked with him before?”
Dominika nodded. “When I worked with Moscow Police. I was lead inspector, and liaised with various agencies. He used to be up in Saint Petersburg, but he transferred about the same time that I was recruited by FSB.”
“How long ago was that?”
“A little over a year ago.”
Rideau raised an eyebrow. “You’re relatively new to the bureau, then.”
“Yes. I’m still getting my feet wet, as the expression goes.” She took another sip of wine. They sat for a moment in silence, each gauging the other. Dominika got a text message on her cell phone, and took a couple of minutes to have a back-and-forth with someone. Rideau checked her own phone: still no reception. Outside, the wind picked up suddenly, and snow and leaves smacked up against the large bay windows. “Your plane barely got here before the storm.”
“I know. There was talk of delay.”
“If that had happened, it’s likely I would’ve missed you.”
Rideau held on to her question while the waiter returned and handed out their appetizer plates. He pulled his notepad back out and took their orders. For Rideau, it was sea bass and scallops. For Dominika, nothing but oysters. After collecting their menus with a smile, the waiter disappeared once more. “So, do you want to tell me what this is about?”
Dominika had already lifted a morsel of crab to her mouth. She used fork and knife, no chopsticks. The type to abandon tradition for expediency, she thought. “I told you I’ve been working for FSB for over a year now.” She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “But before that, I worked very closely with the bureau, and was familiar enough that at first they wanted me as not only an agent but as a liaison between agencies—Moscow Police, Chelyabinsk Police, Yekaterinburg Police, Interpol, CIA, et cetera.” Another bite. “I had developed a reputation for keeping good communication between all of the domestic police departments and agencies, and so they wanted me to do so in a more official capacity. This was around the time that Interpol had started promoting more cooperation between Russian agencies and the rest of the world, and I also had some experience liaising with Interpol. So, they figured I was a natural pick.” Another bite.
Rideau didn’t want to say much. It was obvious the woman was getting around to a point, and she didn’t want to throw Dominika off her due track. So, she got her chopsticks and started into her salad. “Congratulations on all that,” she put in.
Dominika shook her head. “It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting. For the most part, I was encouraged to dissuade Interpol from interfering, and, at times, I was ordered to tell certain police agencies here in Russia to hold off on collaborating with investigations between other agencies. Moscow wasn’t to work too closely with Ufa Police, for instance, if certain investigations were given a new kind of security clearance, a level called ‘non-comply.’ ”
Rideau made a face. “What is that?”
“There’s no exact definition. That is, there is one, but the definition is broad enough to include almost anything FSB doesn’t wish to share with various domestic police agencies, or foreign ones.” She took a bite of crab, adding, “Or Interpol.”
Rideau rummaged around in her salad, then plucked out a leaf and ate it. She mulled over what Dominika was saying while chewing. “I’ve never heard of non-comply.”
“Ne
ither had I, until I got what I thought was a promotion. As it turns out, I was put in place not to facilitate and ease communication between agencies, but to help sell them on all the reasons that non-comply was in their best interest whenever it was established on a case. Basically, because I knew them all so well, FSB figured they could ‘sell’ these excuses to Moscow Police and the others if it was coming from me.” She looked at Rideau. “Effectively, I was hired to use my communication skills to undermine the work Interpol had done, at least when it came to certain investigations.”
That was a very direct way of putting it, and a stark admission. Rideau was fascinated by Dominika’s bluntness. “Why would a case be given non-comply status?”
“As I said, the definition on non-comply is broad—like, eh, the various surveillance acts enacted in the U.K. this year, or the Patriot Act in the U.S. It can be stamped on anything considered of significant national security.”
Rideau was starting to feel a little annoyed. Just when we thought we were making some headway over here. “So, no matter what we do at Interpol, no matter how much we bend over backwards, there are still some things that FSB and Moscow Police won’t budge on? There’s still information that they won’t divulge, even if it helps other member nations of Interpol solve a crime that affects them all?”
“Yes. I’m sure you’re not surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind you had to know we’d always remain stubborn.”
“It’s not surprising, it’s just…” Rideau sighed.
Dominika smiled and nodded. “Frustrating?”
“Yes.” She played with her salad for a moment. Then, she looked the FSB woman over. “Why are you telling me this now?”
Dominika took a bite of crab, then a sip of wine, and looked out the window. Her eyes raked the parking lot briefly. Was she worried someone might be eavesdropping? She picked up her wineglass, and then sloshed it around, looking at the vortex at the center. She’s working up to something. Rideau remained quiet, letting Dominika decide. “The crime scene you just left has been stamped as non-comply. In fact, it was done even before you arrived, but you managed to get Tattar to take you to the scene before all involved knew. By morning, Chelyabinsk Police won’t be allowed to speak to any other agencies in Russia about their findings, and when Interpol asks about it, the response they will get is, ‘What crime scene?’ ”
“But why would they do that? That breaks down communication. With someone like Yuri Shcherbakov, we all need to have our eyes peeled, and every agency needs a detailed account of what the bastard did. He killed fellow law enforcement officials, don’t they care about the fraternity of fellow cops?” Dominika looked at her blankly. “This non-comply stands in the way of finding the Grey Wolf. It’s the compiling of data that allows us to track people like him, profile him, and get a handle on his modus operandi.”
Dominika took another bite. “Of course you’re right. At least, that would be the way of it if anyone wanted him caught.” She chewed, swallowed, took another bite.
Rideau’s food was frozen midway between plate and mouth. She lowered her chopsticks. “Why wouldn’t the FSB want him caught?” she asked. “They’re the primary intelligence agency of this country. It’s in their best interest to stop such a person. It’s in the public’s best interest.”
“You know something about Fenya, yes?”
Rideau searched her memory for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, the thieves’ cant, the secret language the vory v zakone use amongst themselves to throw off surveillance and investigators.”
“Did you know that it is a constantly evolving language, that the jargon changes rapidly, and that the vory require all their members to become familiar with the cant, especially the upper echelons?” Rideau nodded. “And did you know that it changes so rapidly, and that the systems used to alter it are so intricate, that oftentimes our own cryptographers are unable to keep up?” Rideau nodded. She had heard this before, but unfortunately neither Moscow Police nor FSB would share much of their data with Interpol cryptographers, or, say, CIA crypto analysts. “It’s considered the most ingenious and complex secret language ever conceived by any criminal syndicate. No other comes close, not even that of Cosa Nostra.”
“What has this got to do with non-comply? How does this play in with the FSB not wanting to bring in Yuri Shcherbakov?”
Dominika sighed, and took another bite of her crab. Then, she downed the last of her wine. It appeared she needed all the courage she could get to continue. “The FSB have worked long and hard on decoding the methods behind Fenya, and now…now they have two operatives on the inside. Deep, deep inside the operations of the vory, deep enough that they are directly involved with those who are regularly sought after to make changes to the cant language. Now, getting these operatives this embedded has taken FSB ten years. That’s ten years of working various angles and cons, developing fake IDs, passports, and intricate backgrounds for each of these operatives, so that no one would suspect anything. Both operatives even served time in prison, over two years, making friends on the inside while forsaking their families on the outside, having their names ruined and dragged through the mud, just to make it appear as though they could have nothing to do with law enforcement. Their covers are ironclad.”
The waiter came by, poured them some wine, and promised them that their main courses would be out soon before he vanished once again. Rideau never took her eyes off Dominika.
“It’s because of these operatives that we know exactly where Yuri Shcherbakov is staying while in town, and exactly who’s hired him.”
Rideau laid her chopsticks into her plate now, and leaned over. “Dominika,” she whispered, “are you telling me that the FSB knows precisely where Shcherbakov is right now, and that they’re doing nothing about it?”
“No,” she said. “I’m telling you they’ve known where he is every moment for the last six months, up to and including tonight, and they let him carry on with his business.” Dominika raised her wineglass to take a sip. “Up to and including what he did to Vasilisa Rubashkin.” She downed her second glass of wine in two seconds.
Rideau blinked a few times, and shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t…I won’t believe that. Dominika—”
“I know how it sounds, but believe me, it’s true.”
“Why would they do that, Dominika? That makes no sense. I’m sorry, I’m not calling you a liar, I just…I don’t know how this could be possible.”
The FSB woman sat her wineglass down, pinched the base of it between thumb and forefinger, and spun it slowly around for a moment. “Have you ever been to Coventry, Aurélie?”
Rideau thought that was a strange question. “Once. Years ago. Why?”
“Did you get to see any of the sites? Saint Michael’s Cathedral? The Herbert Art Gallery?”
She nodded. “I saw the cathedral, sure.”
Dominika smiled briefly. Smiles looked strange on her face; they didn’t belong on a surface so sad. “So much of that city has been rebuilt, you know. A great deal of it was utterly destroyed by the German Air Force on November 14, 1940. Four thousand homes were obliterated and eight hundred people killed in one day. It could have all been avoided, of course, because Winston Churchill had access to a powerful intelligence source, someone deeply embedded in German command, and because of this source’s information they had finally deciphered the German code.” She smiled sardonically, which looked even stranger. “Churchill could’ve saved all those people by answering the German air raid. He had plenty of time to do it, but he didn’t. And do you know why?” Of course Rideau knew why, but she allowed Dominika to go on. “Because he would’ve shown his hand. If Churchill had prevented the air raid, the Germans would’ve known that the British had cracked their code and they would’ve changed it immediately, and no more valuable intelligence would have been gained through that source.” She added, “Churchill let the city of Coventry burn rather than compromise a decisive source of intelligence.”
Sile
nce between them. A kind of pall had fallen over the table. Outside, flecks of snow smacked up against the window. Somewhere far off, some animal gave off a mournful howl.
Dominika accepted a refill of wine, and thanked the waiter. “But that was war,” Rideau said. “That was a World War. There was far more at stake and those kinds of difficult decisions needed to be made. They always do in war. If what you’re saying about FSB is true, it’s completely different.”
“No, it’s not. Not to them. To them, it’s an invasion. To them, the vory have been invading for almost a hundred years. The Mafia here have taken over low-level police agencies and even many high-ranking politicians. The way FSB looks at it, they’ve been fighting a war for over a hundred years, since the vory formed in Stalin’s Gulag, a war they’ve tried to keep out of the media and international news outlets.”
“But if they had done that, if they had allowed others in, they could’ve gotten help from a variety of professional agencies.”
Dominika sighed. “That isn’t our way, Aurélie. We don’t want anyone to think we’re weak, and we don’t want them to think we need their help. So, we go it alone. And right now, the Director and Deputy Director of FSB, as well as the Prime Minister himself, have all agreed that, for the time being, certain allowances are to be made. Non-comply is issued on anything that might allow more than two agencies to zero in on someone they feel—”
“But Shcherbakov isn’t just anyone, he’s a monster!” Rideau hissed. “And Vasilisa Rubashkin was an innocent woman!”
“So were the eight hundred people of Coventry,” said Dominika. “But they are the disposable ones. Worth losing if you can get the bigger fish.”
“What bigger fish is there than Yuri Shcherbakov?”
“The heads of the Ankundinov and the Zverev families. They stay mobile, sometimes live outside of the country, and right now the only way to track their movements and prove that they’re involved in mass criminal conspiracies is by using the code, using Fenya, and following it as it continues to evolve.” She added, “It will be vital when one day they are all brought before a court of law, and made to answer for their crimes. It is the only way to decode their messages and the orders that the Mafia leaders dispense.”
